


Red To A Bull

by AngelPussy



Category: EVANS Johannes T. - Works, Powder and Feathers - Johannes T. Evans
Genre: Angels, Begging, Belly Kink, Belly Rubs, Come Inflation, Consent Issues, Crying, Degradation, Dirty Talk, Drugged Sex, Dubious Consent, Humiliation, Inflation, M/M, Masochism, Objectification, Pseudo-Incest, Public Humiliation, References to Addiction, Semi-Public Sex, Size Difference, Size Kink, Stomach Bulge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-01
Updated: 2020-11-01
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:53:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27338236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AngelPussy/pseuds/AngelPussy
Summary: Jean-Pierre needs to be taken down a peg from time to time.Asmodeus offers his brother for a trio of minotaurs to fuck.
Relationships: Aimé Deverell/Jean-Pierre Delacroix, Asmodeus/Jean-Pierre Delacroix, Jean-Pierre Delacroix/OMC(s)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 48





	Red To A Bull

They had originally come into the bar, a Hellenistic-owned establishment, to meet with a committee of angels who were working on additions to the angelic education policy. They wanted to digitize the museum and the library at the Celestial Embassy in Harare, and make more of it freely available to angels internationally, without having to travel.

Jean-Pierre wasn’t a member of the committee, and he wasn’t helping.

Not that he felt it wasn’t important – certainly, it was. It was just the fact that he had always felt himself more valuable as an _entry_ at the Celestial Museum than as one trying to teach its contents, and he really had no head for computers.

He and Asmodeus had gone to dinner beforehand, and Jean-Pierre had simply trailed after him when Asmodeus had said he had an appointment: as Asmodeus sat at the table, mostly observing, occasionally answering a question when it was posed to him, Jean-Pierre sat at the bar and read a medical periodical, spinning loosely back and forth on his barstool. Asmodeus didn’t know much about computers, by his own admission – Jean-Pierre wasn’t certain this was true, because in the event Jean-Pierre’s phone or laptop glitched, Asmodeus always knew how to go into its background systems and stop them from interfering with one another, but that was neither here nor there.

What was important, he supposed, was that he knew angels, _every_ angel, and he understood best how to disseminate information among them.

Jean-Pierre wondered if he had said just like this at the meeting to propose the Celestial Embassy’s very founding, three or four thousand years ago. Had he sat back in his seat, just like this, and sipped at a glass of water, smiled his subtle smile when other angels asked him what he thought? Had everyone at the table held their breaths to hear him speak, and craned toward him?

For all they had Asmodeus at their table, the angels kept turning to look at Jean.

They knew who he was, of course.

Not all of them were historians – some of them were digital enthusiasts, or cultural educators, or carried whatever new professional label Jean-Pierre expected didn’t exist a few decades ago, and the thought of the latter made him smile, because they created such new and incredible things, these angels, most of them a good deal younger than him. Most of them didn’t even have fifty years under their belts, just yet.

All of them knew who he was, even if they didn’t know the specifics of what that meant, and they couldn’t resist looking at him – they looked at him with more awareness in their eyes than most people did. They didn’t merely look at him because he was beautiful: they looked at him because they knew he was terrible, and he felt his lips twitch slightly as he continued to read, occasionally sending a text back to Aimé, who was sitting on their patio, painting and arguing with Colm about beer.

They spoke for a few hours, and when the angels filed out, Jean-Pierre could see one or two of them look toward Jean, wanting to come and talk to him, but Asmodeus sent them firmly – but smilingly – on their way, and when he came up to the bar, Jean-Pierre leaned toward him and laid his cheek on his shoulder.

“You want another mocktail?” Asmodeus asked quietly.

“You want to stay? Aimé and Colm are at home. I could have Aimé air a bottle for you.”

“I want to drink cheaper wine for the moment,” Asmodeus said quietly, waving over the bartender. “We’ll sit in the downstairs bar.”

Jean-Pierre glanced around. He hadn’t been in this place before – it was a fashionable place, with a lot of well-dressed individuals, and it was quietly, casually magical. In one pair of fridges to one edge of the bar, bottles of blood were neatly stacked and labelled, and many of the books and magazines in the bookshelves were about magical history and practice. Small shrines to several of the primary Hellenistic gods were stationed around the place, at the entrance, behind the bar, in the little niches in the walls. 

He couldn’t see the stairs to the other bar.

Asmodeus ordered his mocktail for him, and Jean-Pierre followed Asmodeus, letting himself be led behind a blue curtain he had thought only held a wall: the two of them descended down the spiral staircase into a room that was very warm, with fires lit around its edges, and instead of the sleek little booths they had upstairs, there were longer benches and tables.

Some people were laid on couches or sitting on rugs on the floor, speaking with one another, and Jean-Pierre could see people drinking from the wide-brimmed dishes shared between one another, or sharing platters of fruit.

Asmodeus and Jean-Pierre settled at the bar together, their backs to the rest of the room, and Jean-Pierre returned to his magazine as Asmodeus sipped his wine and made conversation with the bartender in rich, easy tones – they spoke a very old language that Jean-Pierre didn’t know the name of, and didn’t concentrate enough on to really comprehend.

People watched Jean-Pierre here, too.

He pretended to be oblivious to it, but he knew how attractive he looked, in his dark coloured trousers clinging tightly to the lines of his muscled thighs and calves, in a dark green jumper that Aimé had grown out of, but that fit Jean-Pierre comfortably loosely.

He basked in it, the wanting gazes of all these people looking at him, watching him.

There was no fear in it, as there had been with the angels looking at him, no conflicted desire, no uncertainty. There was merely a knowledge that they were looking at something that seemed very delicate indeed, and the desire to break it in their hands.

There were a trio of minotaurs sitting on the floor together, and Jean-Pierre watched them with interest: they were each of them nearly eight feet tall, wearing loose robe skirts around their waists, medallions around their necks.

 _They_ were watching him.

They were talking about him, too – he could hear them talking to one another, about his legs, his arse, his pink, cock-sucking lips that would never be able to stretch around them. They laughed now and then, and Jean-Pierre smirked at their attention.

There was something pleasant, at times, in being the subject of such interest, and being unattainable.

When one of the minotaurs stood and came to the bar, he stood behind Jean, and Jean-Pierre had to focus to keep from shivering when his breath, snorting and hot, touched the back of his neck.

He opened his mouth to speak, to say something sly and teasing and flirtatious, to play the game back and forth with him, but before he could, Asmodeus turned in his seat to regard the minotaur.

“You like my brother?” he asked in a rumbling tone, and Jean-Pierre preened internally, feeling himself _beam_ at the way behind him, the bull faltered, taking a half-step back. He would have been happy to play the game, to dance upon the line and give these young bulls something to fantasise about, but Asmodeus, it seemed, was out to _protect_ him.

He liked that, from time to time.

“Just ordering a drink, Kyrios,” the minotaur said hurriedly, in a far more respectful tone than he had been using with his friends.

Jean-Pierre, keeping his smile hidden behind the curtain of his hair, turned to look at Asmodeus, who was smiling in that bland, frightening way he had, one eyebrow raised.

“You weren’t admiring him with your friends?” Asmodeus asked, gesturing loosely with one hand. Jean-Pierre shivered, and he put his hand on his chin, watching his brother’s face. “Looking at him, discussing his assets?”

“We…” Jean-Pierre watched in the bar mirror as the minotaur snorted slightly nervously, glancing back toward his two friends, who were both laughing amongst themselves now. They were young men, it seemed to Jean-Pierre, young and foolish. “We meant nothing by it.”

“Nothing? You mean to say you didn’t find my brother attractive?”

Jean-Pierre pressed his lips together to keep from laughing at the minotaur’s scattered, sharp breaths.

“I— Of course, he’s very… very handsome, Kyrios, but we were just talking, we didn’t mean to insult.”

“You don’t insult,” Asmodeus said cleanly. “You can sample him, if you like. If you think his mouth is small and pretty, you should see the lips of his cunt.”

Jean-Pierre stared at his brother. The minotaur stared too.

This wasn’t the game _at all_.

“Kyrios?” he asked, uncertain.

“De—” Jean-Pierre said, abruptly uncertain, but Asmodeus held up one finger and said, “Shht, Jean,” very sharply, as though he were some badly behaved pet. The insolence of it infuriated him, and he felt heat rise in his cheeks, burning him, the humiliation of it _cutting_ at him.

“Come now,” De said to the young minotaur, standing slowly to his feet. “We’re all friends here, aren’t we? You like the look of my brother – you’d like very much to partake of him. I’m offering you the chance to do so. You would refuse this offer? I might be insulted by _that_ , young man.”

The minotaur’s fat, clumsy tongue wet his lips, and he sorted once again from his bull’s snout, looking Jean-Pierre over.

He was half-hard under his robe, making the skirt tent somewhat, and Jean-Pierre could see with how huge he was, how thick his cock was, too – it was twice as thick as Asmodeus’, which already made Jean-Pierre’s belly bow outward when Asmodeus decided to punish him with a fuck, and long enough that it seemed as though it would fuck into his cunt and force his lungs out of his mouth.

Jean-Pierre swallowed.

De was shorter than the minotaur, significantly so, but it didn’t feel that way. It didn’t even look that way, really – Asmodeus was two feet shorter, and yet he felt as though he held the weight of the world within him, as though he could crush the young bull like an insect, which was only right, because he could.

“De,” Jean-Pierre said again, a little more urgently, this time, but Asmodeus gave him a cold look, and he faltered.

“You liked them looking at you, didn’t you?” he asked, raising his eyebrows.

Jean-Pierre’s cheeks burned all the hotter. “Yes, but—”

“Then get up,” Asmodeus said cleanly. “Show some manners, Jean.”

Jean-Pierre thought about refusing, thought about staying in his seat, but Asmodeus would only drag him up, then, and he didn’t want for that. Reluctantly, he got down from the bar stool, and with Asmodeus’ hand on the small of his back, he let himself be guided toward where the young bulls were sitting.

“Let’s take that off, shall we?” Asmodeus asked softly, standing behind him, and Jean-Pierre mutely raised his arms, let Aimé’s old jumper be loosely pulled up over his head, tossed aside so that the bulls could watch him.

“What the fuck is happening?” whispered the one sprawled on the floor.

“I don’t fucking know,” whispered back the one who’d come over to the bar. “But I’m not complaining.”

Jean-Pierre didn’t move as Asmodeus reached around his chest, beginning to unfasten the buttons of his blouse. The three bulls were watching him hungrily, eagerly, as more of his skin was bared to the room, as Asmodeus’ fingers lingered on his skin, touched over his pebbling nipples, his flat stomach.

Other people in the room glanced over, amused or interested, but no one moved to come closer, to look more obviously. It was plainly not uncommon for people to fuck on the floor of this establishment.

“Shoes off,” Asmodeus murmured in Jean-Pierre’s ear as he folded the blouse, and Jean-Pierre kicked off his trainers, then wriggled out of his jeans. Asmodeus folded those for him, too.

“Fuck, Manoli,” muttered the one sitting on the bench, the third one. “Look at his fucking cunt.”

“He’s dripping,” said the bull who’d come to the bar – Manolis. “Shit.”

Jean-Pierre was red all over, now, and he _was_ wet, from the humiliation, from having enjoyed them looking at him, and he was aware that a little of the wetness showing dewy and shining, clinging to his lips and between them.

The minotaur on the floor – Davros, his name transpired to be – palmed his huge cock through his robes, as Asmodeus pushed Jean-Pierre’s thighs apart, and then reached between his legs with both hands, spreading his lips. Jean-Pierre let out a shuddered, low whine, leaning back against his brother’s chest at the feel of the warm air on the room on his cunt.

“Looks fucking tiny,” said Spiros, the minotaur on the bench, who was leaning forward, looking at Jean-Pierre eagerly. “Any one of us would fucking break him.”

“Let’s find out, shall we?” asked Asmodeus.

The three young bulls looked at him dumbly.

“Who will go first?” Asmodeus asked softly, and Davros sat up, _raised his hand_ like a schoolboy.

He dragged his robe down, and Jean-Pierre stared with horror at his huge cock, as long as a horse’s cock and a good deal thicker, and he put one hand back against Asmodeus’ chest. It was just as big as Manolis’, too big for him to sit on comfortably, and it would hurt, would spread him open.

“De,” he whispered, shaking his head and leaning back against Asmodeus’ chest, “De, I—”

“Do you want me to gag you?” Asmodeus asked quietly in his ear. “I will, if you need me to.”

“I don’t want to, De,” Jean-Pierre said quaveringly, “they’re too big, and it’s— it’s _humiliating_ , it’s too public, I don’t want to.”

“Alright,” Asmodeus said softly, patting his back. “Alright, Jean, it’s alright.”

Jean-Pierre felt the barest second of relief before Asmodeus slid a clean handkerchief into his mouth, and tied it in place with the ribbon Jean-Pierre had been wearing in his hair earlier: a second, one from Asmodeus’ own pocket, tied Jean-Pierre’s wrists behind his back.

“Davros first, Jean,” Asmodeus said, patting him on the arse, and when Jean-Pierre didn’t move, Asmodeus lifted him up with one hand on his hip, the other pulling at one thigh to keep his lips spread, and Jean-Pierre tried to struggle, tried to kick and cry out, but Asmodeus just lined him up with the tip of Davros’ cock, the ridiculously fat head against his lips.

It was too big.

It was as thick as Jean-Pierre’s thigh, far too much for him to take even after being fisted, let alone unprepared, but Asmodeus just took Jean-Pierre by the backs of his knees, letting Jean-Pierre’s weight fall against his chest, and spread his legs apart.

“Are you sure he can take this?” Davros asked. “I feel like I’m going to kill him.”

Asmodeus forced Jean-Pierre down over the head of Davros’ cock, forcing him to stretch wide with a painful wrench of his insides, and Jean-Pierre screamed behind the gag, shaking his head, kicking, but it didn’t matter. It made a loud _pop_ of cartoonish sound when Asmodeus tugged Jean-Pierre off the fat head, only to pierce him on it again.

“He can take it,” Asmodeus said, and lifted him slightly before dropping him down again.

The pain would kill him – the _stretch_ would kill him.

As Asmodeus cleanly lifted him and then dropped him down again, Jean-Pierre closed his eyes tightly, whined and fell back further against Asmodeus’ chest, as he felt his cunt split so wide he felt like he’d ripped to shreds on it, but he didn’t rip – he never ripped, the most that would ever happen would be the slightest drip of blood before he stretched around whatever was being forced in him.

Asmodeus knew that.

He enjoyed it.

He could feel the obscene bulge of his belly as Asmodeus worked the minotaur’s cock deeper inside him, until it was buried in him so deeply his whole body seemed to bulge with it, and he was sobbing as he clenched around its fat length, because he would come on it, and he knew it.

Davros was looking up at him eagerly, awe writ on his bovine features, his lips parted, and Jean-Pierre was barely aware of the way the minotaurs’ tones had changed, now. They were still keenly expressing desire, want, fascination with the way Jean-Pierre’s pink lips were spread wide by his being impaled on their friend’s cock. They talked about how beautiful he still looked, how his pretty little belly was stuffed full of him, how he was dripping wet down to Davros’ balls.

“Look at his clit, Gods. The thing’s like a cherry.”

“It’s the only cherry this cunt has left.”

“Don’t be a fucking dick, Spiro, look how good he’s being. Look at his stomach. How’s he feel, Davro?”

“Good,” Davros said breathlessly. “So fucking good.”

Jean-Pierre couldn’t help it.

He was humiliated, every inch of his skin hot with it, but he couldn’t help but clench with the rhythm of Asmodeus’ thrusts, the way his brother was fucking him on someone else’s cock.

Whenever he clenched, the squeeze of his muscles made his clit jump, and the minotaur had him stretched so widely that every time he did, he could feel the whole organ pressured on every side. He hated it – he should have hated it – but as always, there was something more than hate in it: there was ecstasy, the sensation of something utterly sublime, of being forced far beyond what ought have been his limits, and he could feel the orgasm coiling like a box spring tight in the very base of his belly, making him hiss and gasp with every drop of his body onto Davros’ cock.

The bull seemed almost too frightened to thrust up and into him, just sprawled out with one hand loosely stroking the base of his cock, the rest of it stuffed into him and forcing his belly to bulge outward: when the bull actually choked out a low, pleasured groan and his hips jerked, it punched the breath out of Jean-Pierre’s lungs.

He howled around the gag when he came, feeling himself clench tight around the fat thing impaling him, and Davros lowed, his eyes squeezing tight as his head fell back on the rug.

“Fuck, you should feel this,” he grunted, “he’s so fucking tight he might swallow it.”

“Beautiful, isn’t he?” Asmodeus asked softly, his breath warm on the back of Jean-Pierre’s ear, and Jean-Pierre whimpered as the minotaur beneath him jerked his hips up and into him, thrust inside him in a way that made Jean-Pierre choke on it.

“I can’t, fuck, fuck, I’m gonna—”

“Nnnn,” Jean-Pierre whined around the gag, shaking his head, trying to grab at Asmodeus’ shirt with his bound hands, wishing he could beg aloud, _Don’t let him, don’t let him_ —

The minotaur couldn’t have had more than two-thirds of his cock stuffed into him, but Jean-Pierre swore he could feel the whole thing pulse when Davros started to come. He could feel the way the great, fat head of it throb inside him, and the minotaur’s come was heavy and thick, so that he could feel it wash against his insides. Davros lowed again, the sound groaning and from low in his belly, and Jean-Pierre’s eyes fluttered shut as he felt his belly bloat outward, his cunt stuffed full enough that his stomach bulged further and further out.

It sloshed in him, heavy as cream but so hot he felt as though steam should be coming out of his ears, and he sobbed out a desperate noise, clenching down on it.

It was—

It was very hot, actually.

The heat of it was spreading in him, like it was filling more than his bulging womb, but spreading throughout his whole body, up his chest, into his shoulders, spreading down his arms and legs, gathering tingling hot in his fingers and his toes.

His lips tingled too, and when he licked his lower lip, the sensation made him shudder. The room was spinning slightly, and he felt so deliciously, incredibly hot, it was wonderful, he was sinking, floating in the air, somehow, and the pleasure—

He groaned at the emptiness when Asmodeus pulled him off of Davros’ cock, and sighed his pleasure when he was sunk down onto Spiros’ instead. He was lolling back, he was aware, making constant noise behind the gag, and he was grateful for it, now, to keep him from babbling nonsense.

It felt so _good_ , and how could he have hesitated, how could he have even thought of protesting when Asmodeus offered him up? It was glorious, heavenly, all this cock stuffed inside him, all of this hot, thick come, and he felt himself come again before Spiros could even get close to coming.

They were talking again, now, all of them, the minotaurs and Asmodeus, and there were other people watching him, watching Asmodeus bounce Jean-Pierre on Spiros’ cock. He got it deeper than Davros had, so deep that Jean-Pierre felt as though he were being stirred up, as though he were being made so full with cock it would replace whatever insides he had left, and wasn’t that good? Wasn’t that what he wanted, _needed_?

He wanted to feel like this forever.

Other people were watching him, had gathered around to look and watch and comment, but all the noise they made blurred in Jean-Pierre’s ears, all the words being boiled down to so much distant music, and all that mattered in that was Asmodeus’ melody line: his voice was rich and resonant and thrummed against Jean-Pierre’s back as he kept tight hold of him, and Jean-Pierre fell back against his brother’s warm, heavy chest.

Time passed in a flash before he was impaled on Manolis’ cock instead of Spiros’, and Jean-Pierre stared down at the young minotaur in surprise, his hands rested on the minotaurs’ huge pecs – when had Asmodeus let his hands free? – and realised that the bull’s balls were kissing his arse, the whole of his cock stuffed into him.

“Oh,” Jean-Pierre mumbled, jaw aching from where he’d been clenching his teeth around the gag earlier, dizzy and bleary and so, so full, and he put his hands on the huge, pregnant swell of his stomach as he felt the Manolis’ cock sputter what last it had to give. He was so full and heavy he ached with it, and he pressed experimentally on the fat, swollen skin of his stretched out belly, aware that his mouth was open but not really able to correct his slack jaw.

It all seemed very slow, everything, even as Asmodeus lifted him gently off of Manolis’ cock and laid him out on the rug, working a plug into his gaping cunt to keep any of it from dripping out, which he appreciated, after a fashion.

“De,” he moaned softly, and De hushed him gently, patting his belly and making the come stuffed inside it slosh, and distantly, he supposed that that should have hurt, but if it did, it was a sweet agony, so sweet it didn’t feel like pain at all. Barefoot on delicate feet, he padded clumsily across the room, forced to waddle with how stuffed his belly was, and his knees shook a little with the extra weight.

“Doesn’t he look good like this?” De asked as Jean-Pierre leaned on the bar, picking up his drink and guzzling it down, swallowing down every mouthful of it, because he was very thirsty, and hadn’t realised. “This is what he’s made for.”

Asmodeus’ hand slid gently down the small of Jean-Pierre’s back, tracing his spine, dipping into the soaked cleft of his arse before tapping two or three times on the plug. Each hard tap made him whimper, because his cunt jumped at the delightful pressure, and inside him, the come washed against his walls. He cupped his belly again, staring down at its rounded-out surface, tracing his scars where they’d been spread wide by his bloated flesh.

“Feels… good,” Jean-Pierre mumbled, swallowing, sighing softly as he pressed on the full, ballooned skin. He had been embarrassed, why had he been embarrassed…? But everyone was looking at him, and he felt a flicker of shame start to return.

“Minotaurs’ll do that to you,” the barman said, and poured him more pineapple juice, which Jean-Pierre obediently drank. “Gotta be careful with that stuff, angel. They’ll have you hooked on it.”

“Hooked,” Jean-Pierre repeated vaguely, and closed his eyes as Asmodeus stroked his hair.

“Can’t believe he took the whole thing,” he heard someone saying. “Like a gods damned magic trick. There anything he can’t take?”

“Criticism, usually,” said Asmodeus.

He should have been offended by that, Jean-Pierre thought, but he couldn’t quite make his brain remember why. Asmodeus took a cloth from the bartender and gently wiped him down, sweeping up the come that had dripped down the insides of his thighs and around his cunt, and as he did so, he played with Jean-Pierre’s clit. He didn’t think he could come like this, but it felt nice, and he moaned softly, leaning into his brother’s arms.

“Jean, clothes on,” Asmodeus said behind him, and Jean-Pierre turned blearily to look at him. One of the minotaurs had his shirt and his jeans, and Jean-Pierre sat back on the bar stool, letting Asmodeus pull Jean-Pierre’s trousers up his legs. His belly, bulging out huge and heavy, and he couldn’t button them up, couldn’t even do up the zipper.

Asmodeus slid his shirt, which was oversized, onto his arms, and began to button it down his chest, but by the time he’d gotten to the middle of his torso, it would barely button at all – Asmodeus forced some of them, even though the squeeze made Jean-Pierre whine, made him feel like he would burst, and his blouse was obscenely stretched out, the buttons not being able to hold the blouse together. He could feel the fabric stretching, straining as much as his skin was.

“My jumper,” Jean-Pierre begged.

“I haven’t got it, Jean, I’m sorry,” Asmodeus murmured, looking around. “Where did you put it down?”

“I don’t know,” Jean-Pierre whined. “I don’t know, De, but I need one, I need one—”

Asmodeus wasn’t wearing a cardigan today, and no one down here, in their robes, seemed to have one to hand. Jean-Pierre bit his lip, and stared down at his swollen stomach, at the way his blouse strained around its weight.

The high was slow to wear off, but he was aware enough now that he was embarrassed, humiliated, by all the people staring at him, and he hurriedly waddled over to grab hold of his shoes. When he tried to bend over to pick them up, he belly felt like it would split like a water balloon, and then he stumbled and fell on his knees.

He was so heavy, sloshing with it, and with how huge his belly was rounded out, he could barely reach his feet. Asmodeus put his shoes on for him, and then tugged him gently to his feet.

“Time to go home, Jean,” Asmodeus said, stroking his fingers through Jean-Pierre’s hair before patting Jean-Pierre’s belly through the straining white fabric of his blouse.

It was cold outside, and the cool air made his belly sensitive, and he knew that his nipples were hard and showing through his shirt. He was walking clumsily, was forced to waddle strangely by the strange, huge weight of his stomach, and he leaned heavily on Asmodeus.

“Get a taxi,” Jean said when he realised Asmodeus was leading them toward the bus stop. “De. De, De, please, please let’s get a taxi, I don’t want to, De—”

“Don’t make me gag you on public transport, Jean,” Asmodeus murmured quietly. “It’s unseemly.”

The bus driver stared at his huge gut as Jean-Pierre shakily scanned his transport card, and Asmodeus made him sit on the outside of the very front seat on the bus, so that everybody getting on could see him as they walked past, and they all stared at him, looking huge and pregnant in clothes that didn’t fit him.

Asmodeus pressed on his belly from time to time, and when they were on the stretch of road that didn’t have any stops, Asmodeus slid two fingers into the open flies of his jeans and shoved his belly up to reach, even though it hurt, even though Jean-Pierre choked and whimpered in a whispered voice for him not to.

He could see the CCTV on the bus, the monitor up in the top corner behind the bus driver’s booth, which only showed Jean-Pierre and De from the chest up, but Jean-Pierre could see himself squirming even though he tried not to, and when Asmodeus forced a finger into his sopping cunt alongside the plug, he had to bite down on his thumb to keep from crying out.

It was a long ride home.

*** * ***

Colm had gone to bed, but Aimé was still awake reading when he heard the door open, and he looked up at his boyfriend as Jean-Pierre waddled, fat as a bird stuffed for Christmas, into the living room. Sweat shone on his face and his neck, and his belly was so fucking fat with whatever Asmodeus had stuffed inside it that Jean looked nine months pregnant, and he walked clumsily with it.

It was pretty fucking hot, to be honest.

Jean had a fucked-out look on his face, but his pupils were blown to fuck, and Aimé wondered if Asmodeus had given him something, because he struggled to focus on anything in the room, even on Aimé, who put his arms out and encouraged Jean-Pierre to come sit in his lap.

His shirt had lost a few of its buttons, and Aimé was gentle about undoing the ones that were still tightly fastened over his fat belly as Jean-Pierre dropped heavily down into his lap. His belly sloshed audibly – liquid, then, presumably someone’s come, if not Asmodeus’.

“What happened here?” he asked, tugging on a place where the thread showed a button had once been.

Jean-Pierre blinked at him stupidly.

“Um,” he mumbled. “Um… It was…”

“They popped off,” said Asmodeus, “on the bus. I teased him and he arched his back for more. Three little clinks on the floor, made everyone stare at him.”

“Did that make you come?” Aimé asked, and Jean-Pierre, cheeks blushing furiously, said nothing. “Thought so.”

“They were all staring at me,” Jean-Pierre mumbled, the humiliation coming off him in waves, and Aimé stroked his palm over the swell of his swollen belly, then smacked it for the way it made Jean-Pierre jerk. “ _Aimé_ , it hurts…”

“You want me to do it harder?”

“Touch my clit,” Jean-Pierre begged, and Aimé sighed affectionately, tugging Jean-Pierre’s jeans down so that he could rub at the pink bud there and make Jean squirm. With the other head, Aimé started to palpate and squeeze hard on his belly, and that made Jean-Pierre writhe, rolling his hips down onto Aimé’s fingers. “Everyone was staring,” he said again, listlessly. “They could all see.”

“Weren’t you wearing my jumper when you went out?” Aimé asked. “Why didn’t you put that back on?”

“I lost it,” Jean-Pierre said miserably.

Aimé glanced at Asmodeus behind Jean-Pierre, who first held up a bottle of wine, to which Aimé nodded, and then mouthed, “ _I’ve got it. It’s in my satchel_.”

Aimé chuckled, squeezing Jean’s clit and watching him moan.

“Three minotaurs,” Asmodeus said casually. “He took the last one all the way. Thought it was going to pop out of his mouth – everybody in the bar was suitably impressed.”

“Big audience?”

“A dozen or so. He was a little too high to notice.”

“More,” Jean-Pierre said.

“By the size of this, sweetheart, you’ve had more than enough already,” Aimé said: this time, he slapped Jean-Pierre hard enough that it made a wet, loud sound, like he’d smacked a drumskin, and Jean-Pierre came around the plug still keeping all the come in him.

 _Minotaur come_.

That stuff was fucking addictive.

Jean-Pierre curled into Aimé’s body, dragging Aimé’s hand to rub circles on his stuffed gut, and Aimé stroked it in a slow, easy rhythm as he watched Asmodeus. Jean-Pierre fell asleep pretty quickly – he was still drugged to the gills, but now and then, Aimé flicked his clit again, and in his sleep, Jean-Pierre would groan and thrust his hips.

“You know, I find it hard to believe he fucking opted in to getting fucked by three minotaurs in a public place without _some_ kind of duress,” Aimé said dryly.

“He was preening,” Asmodeus said, shrugging his shoulders. “He needs to be brought down a peg from time to time.”

“And if he gets desperate for another high?” Aimé asked.

“You still get nicotine cravings, Aimé?” Asmodeus asked, and Aimé patted Jean’s stuffed belly.

“From time to time,” he murmured.

“Well then,” Asmodeus said. “If Jean gets desperate for more, I suppose you can help him ride it out.”

“The cock, or the craving?”

“Whichever seems most amusing at the time, I suppose,” Asmodeus said, and set a glass of wine next to Aimé’s, holding his own loosely to his chest before he went toward the stairs. “Good night.”

“Night, De,” Aimé murmured, and eased Jean-Pierre’s clothes off of him, lowering him back onto the sofa.

When he started fucking him in the arse, it made Jean-Pierre’s swollen womb fucking _roil_ , the slosh of it more than audible, and Aimé groaned to himself as Jean-Pierre’s eyes shot wide open, high-pitched whines eking out of his throat.

At times like this, Aimé really did love Asmodeus as much as he loved his boyfriend.

**Author's Note:**

> Please remember to comment!


End file.
